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He's always a little on edge the night before an operation is set to begin. Butterflies in the stomach, a general sense of restlessness Wufei is more likely to chalk up to excitement than unease. After all, he always gets his man, and the long game, watching his target slowly do himself in, is a satisfying one to play. All the more so when he has a competent partner to share in the victory.
Quatre Winner is nothing if not competent. He seems more interested in playing his own game, however, one that involves pushing Wufei's buttons. And he is, regrettably, quite good at it.
Much better, in fact, than he is at poker.
“I see your kangaroo,” Quatre says, sliding an animal cracker to the center of the table, “and raise you one whale.”
Wufei gives the thing an appraising glance and says, “I believe that is a camel.”
“Um, ha-ha, no, I don't think so.”
“Well, it isn't a whale. They don't make a whale cracker. Check the box if you don't believe me.”
“Wufei, I think I of all people would know a camel when I see one, and that, sir, is no camel.”
“Do you need to borrow my glasses? See, these things are called humps.”
“Is my money good here or not?” It's subtle in this light, but Quatre's cheeks pinken at being corrected like an overly confident schoolboy who's just given a ridiculous answer in front of the whole class. “Just show your hand. You're obviously bluffing.”
Wufei holds out as long as he can, but in the end a grin tugs at the corner of his lips and he has to reveal his cards: just one elusive eight away from a straight.
Quatre doesn't have much to work with either. But he does have a pair of jacks. He looks quite pleased with himself regardless, scooping the animal crackers back toward his own pile while Wufei deals them both new hands. For all his talk of the virtues of cooperation, no one can say Quatre Winner doesn't have a competitive side.
But this is one time Wufei doesn't mind being on a losing streak. It's always a little harder to sleep the night before things get underway. In a luxury resort hotel room, no less, where the sheets probably cost more than his rent. So the company of an old comrade is a very welcome distraction.
And that's the only reason he's been grinning so much tonight his face is starting to hurt.
I'm not in love, so don't forget it
It's just a silly phase I'm going through
And just because I call you up
Don't get me wrong, don't think you've got it made
“You never did say why it had to be me for this operation.”
“I thought that was obvious,” Wufei says, watching Quatre rearrange his hand. “Our target is an industrialist, like you. You have plenty in common to keep him talking. But more than that, you understand his worldview like few could.”
“All the better to convince him to let his guard down and share his deepest, darkest secrets with someone he's only just met.”
When Quatre puts it that way, it sounds like a long shot. But Wufei's too committed to change the plan now. In for a penny, as the saying goes—or a penguin, to be precise.
“You know each other by reputation. And I've seen you work, I know you're good at laying on the charm when you need to get your way. What builds trust faster than a little spirited competition?”
“It's a calculated risk,” Quatre points out. “Asking me to play his new best pal for the weekend, and just hope he lets something juicy slip on a Preventer mic. You know it would have been faster to just call Duo. Or Trowa, or Heero, for that matter. Any one of them could crack into your guy's personal communications and get everything you need in the span of an afternoon.”
“I suppose it might have been,” Wufei concedes with a grudging sigh, exchanging three cards from his hand. “If not for the pesky business of obtaining a warrant.”
“So, you're not going to tell me the real reason I'm here.”
“I thought I already did.”
Quatre just scrunches his lips and hums, not entirely at his cards. And Wufei can't help feeling he's on the wrong side of the interrogation desk, and no matter what he says, the other party isn't buying it.
I like to see you, but then again
That doesn't mean you mean that much to me
So if I call you, don't make a fuss
Don't tell your friends about the two of us
Charm the target, they agreed. Schmooze your way into a seat at his table. Lose big, but do it in a way that leaves him feeling like he owes you. You know what makes a guy like him tick. The way he's been hinting about his big hush-hush pet project to the press, he must be dying to talk about it. If it doesn't violate the Unified Nation's treaty, no harm done. Just a fun weekend between multi-billionaires.
But if it does . . . well, Quatre is the last person who needs to have what's at stake explained to him.
This was supposed to be practice for Quatre's part of the operation. That's why Wufei is here at this late hour, instead of one door over in his own room, staring at the play of city lights across his ceiling and not getting any closer to sleep.
But if this is practice, Quatre isn't taking it very seriously.
At Quatre's four fives, Wufei throws down his flush and cracks open another whiskey mini. Straight into the tumbler it goes, barely adding up to a finger.
Quatre rakes in his winnings again, not bothering to look anything but pleased with himself, and says, “If I'm boring you we could play a different variation. Make things more interesting.”
“What, like pai gow? Hold 'em? Stud?” Actually, that's not a bad idea. It wouldn't hurt for Quatre to have the experience, in case their target decides to switch things up.
“Actually,” he says, “I was thinking strip,” and snaps a tiger in half between his teeth.
“Hey. Don't eat the kitty.”
“That isn't an answer, Wufei.”
“I don't know. Doesn't strip poker involve the loser losing an item of clothing each time? The way things have been going so far, I'd say that wager's a little rich for my blood.”
“I could start losing. I need practice making my losses look genuine.”
“If our target goaded you into a game of strip poker, losing while wearing a wire would be the absolute last thing you'd want to do.”
“Come on, Wufei,” Quatre laughs. “It's been twenty years and—how many times have I played special consultant for your division now?”
“I don't keep track,” Wufei lies. He knows exactly how many times he's called on Quatre's expertise for official business.
“I'd have thought animal crackers and minibar scotch wouldn't do it for you anymore.”
Wufei can't think of a response that doesn't give something away. So he drains his glass.
The whisky sears as it slides down the wrong pipe. It's all Wufei can do to calmly clear his throat and reach for a cracker from the kitty, when his eyes are tearing up so bad he can't tell his tigers from his zebras.
Be quiet, big boys don't cry
Big boys don't cry
Big boys don't cry
“Fine.” One final cough and the burn subsides. “But if we're doing this, I want to set some ground rules first.”
Pleased that this is as close to an explicit yes as he's going to get, Quatre smiles and gestures for Wufei to proceed.
“For starters, cuff links count as one item of clothing. Collectively.”
“Fair enough.”
“Also, loser gets to pick what to remove.”
“Agreed. So long as items are removed from the outside in. No skipping ahead.”
“That's just common sense.” In any case, Wufei isn't sure he can picture removing underwear before outerwear. He'll never forget watching Sally slip off her bra through her sleeve halfway through a long stake-out together. To this day he's haunted by the mystery of how she did it.
“While we're on the subject,” Quatre says, as his foot bumps casually into Wufei's beneath the table, “I have a rule of my own. The glasses stay on, win or lose.”
Hmm. That complicates Wufei's strategy a little.
On the other hand, “At least I'll be able to see the cards I'm holding. But you're not actually throwing me a bone, are you?” Wufei can't help the pleased little grin that pulls at his lips. “Quatre Winner, do you think I look sexy in glasses?”
“I'd say I find intelligence to be an attractive trait,” Quatre says matter-of-factly. “As do a lot of people.”
But there's nothing matter-of-fact about the blush that deepens across his cheeks. And he's barely touched his own scotch.
I keep your picture upon the wall
It hides a nasty stain that's lying there
So don't you ask me to give it back
I know you know it doesn't mean that much to me
One sock and one shirt down, one round into a fresh hand, and Wufei likes the new cards he picked up. He tries not to let it show on his face, but—
“That good, huh?”
There's no way Winner could know that so fast. Damn that space heart of his. “Quite the opposite. I can't do shit with these cards.”
Quatre's laugh is like fingertips, trailing down the back of Wufei's neck. Like he's standing behind Wufei, bending down over his shoulder, breathing over Wufei's cards. How else could Quatre be so self-assured when he says, “I don't believe that for a second.”
“And why's that?”
“You've got a tell.”
“I do not have a tell.”
In Wufei's two decades with Preventer, all the suspects he's interviewed and put away, all the depositions he's given, if he had something so obvious as a tell, wouldn't someone have taken him aside and mentioned it by now? Having a tell is precisely the sort of thing a guy in his line of work would want to know about himself.
So. “Fine. I'll bite.” Now he has to know. “What is it?”
Quatre just focuses on folding his new cards into his hand, and says: “That would be telling.”
It's just the kind of puerile comeback that makes Wufei want to reach across this table and hoist Quatre up by the collar—if he were still wearing one—and . . . and . . .
Get ahold of yourself, Chang. He still has a hand to play, and something to prove, and he's not going down without a fight. Quatre may be naked from the waist up but for his tie, but it's Wufei who knows what an open book feels like. He wonders if that space heart of Quatre's, whatever it is, can read heart rate and core temperature.
“It's your eyebrow,” Quatre finally says. “You do a little—” And he arches his left one a few times.
At least, he tries to, but it seems his face isn't wired to work that way. Turns out there are some things Quatre Winner can't do. So he uses his finger and some light sound effects to try and get his meaning across.
“I do not,” Wufei insists, quickly losing the battle with a stubborn smile.
“You absolutely do. What are you sitting on over there, a pair of aces?”
“Like I would tell you.”
“You just did it again!”
“You're making that up. And I do not have a pair of aces.”
He has a trio.
Quatre opens his mouth, thinks better of what was about to come out, and just says, “We'll see.”
Every hand is revealed eventually.
Ooh, you'll wait a long time for me
Ooh, you'll wait a long time
The cards can't be any clearer. Quatre shakes his head and treats Wufei to a smug smile, drains his glass, and stands up.
His thumbs trace around the inside of his boxers' waistband as he works up the nerve. Or maybe just wants to keep Wufei hanging on the edge a little bit longer before he pushes them down.
He only gets a few centimeters before Wufei says, “Wait.”
“What's the problem? I thought you wanted me to lose my shirt.”
“I think we're well past that.”
As enticing as this is to watch at crotch level, Wufei hops to his feet and stills Quatre's hands. The next moment they're in his hair, and Quatre's mouth is on his. Open, drinking Wufei in. Like he must have wanted to all evening, each time he saw Wufei reach for that glass.
Wufei tugs at his undershirt as Quatre goes for his belt, and the dinette set protests as they stumble into it, both doing their damnedest to correct Wufei's overdressed problem as quickly as possible. He was, after all, by the time they stopped counting, several hands up. Even if Wufei is certain at one point Quatre folded on a royal flush.
I'm not in love, so don't forget it
It's just a silly phase I'm going through
And just because I call you up
Don't get me wrong, don't think you've got it made
The full thousand-thread count of the hotel sheets rushes to meet them as they fall onto the bed. And then Quatre is everywhere, between Wufei's legs, up the length of his spine, in his nostrils, under his lips. Quatre is nothing if not competent. He knows Wufei's buttons, and seems intent on pushing every last one of them before the night is over. Finally he's found an objective to take seriously.
The steam of their breath fogs Wufei's glasses, so Quatre carefully removes them, twisting to lay them on the end table. The lights of the city throw a hazy neon halo around his head, like some kind of Impressionist saint.
Wufei must be staring. Because when Quatre reaches for him again, there's a curious look playing over his features. That much Wufei can tell, even if everything is a bit blurry.
“You know,” Quatre says, his fingers running slowly down Wufei's bare stomach, “you are allowed to come and see me outside of work. You don't have to invent an official reason. Drinks is reason enough. Dinner even. You come pick me up,” he leans in to whisper, “I take you out for a nice steak—”
“You mean, like a date.”
Wufei can feel the curve of Quatre's smile against his ear. “Would that really be so bad?”
His eyebrow twitches, an involuntary reaction. But Quatre is too preoccupied kissing his way down Wufei's neck to catch it. “Maybe.”
I'm not in love
I'm not in love
“But I think I could get used to it.”